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Chapter Text

“I am in complete control of my body and of my mind,” Perturabo told her. His voice was tight and his teeth were clenched– the usual for her brother, if she had to be completely honest. 

“Oh, is that so?” she said, a light little laugh accompanying her words. She reclined languidly on the kline, watching her brother with narrowed eyes. She lifted her golden goblet and took a long sip of strong wine. She felt the heat of it down her throat and between her legs. 

“Is the truth of it not self-evident?” he asked. She had to give him that one. They had been engaging in this particular friendly wager for some time now. And just as he had promised, Perturabo had not yet reached his climax. He gripped his thick cock in his massive fist and kept pulling it for her, just as she had asked. But he had not yet spent himself. His perfect confidence in his own abilities– his arrogance, really– required a little tempering, she thought. And she felt that she might have a way to win their little bet; to hurry him along. 

“Do you find it quite warm in here, Bo?” she asked casually. 

“No,” he said. 

His blunt, brusque way always made her laugh. It made her want to tease him. 

“Well, I do,” she said. And she reached up to one shoulder to undo the pin that kept her chiton fastened. Then she reached to undo the other.

It was odd that one so completely in control of his instrument would react in such a way. Subtle, yes, but her brother’s slight intake of breath, his fist tightening around his cock, the way his jaw clenched when he swallowed– it seemed as though baring her breasts to him was the right call.

But it only seemed to work for a moment. Perturabo closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he appeared to be above the needs of his hot flesh once more. He kept stroking himself, and suddenly he seemed totally unperturbed by her actions. She pouted– unflattering and beneath her, she knew– but she couldn’t really stay mad. It was so rare that she saw a sparkle of mirth in her brother’s cold blue eyes. It was worth it, even if she might still lose their little game.

But she wouldn’t be defeated so easily. Her brother still had to learn humility, a lesson their father and everyone else on Olympia seemed completely unable to get through his incredibly thick skull. And so she rose from the couch and moved slowly towards him. Perturabo seemed mesmerized; unable to look away from the soft swell of her chest. She smiled. She had him now.

She knelt down before him, and placed her hands on each of his huge, muscled thighs. She stroked the dark hair there, before gently coaxing them apart. He spread them for her, and she looked up at him, smiling wider still.

“You could keep holding on,” she said thoughtfully, although her voice was full of heat. “Or you could give in now.”

He shook his head, but said nothing, his teeth pressing into his lower lip. His icy eyes kept darting between her face and her breasts. 

She pushed her chest towards him. “Because I have a wonderful idea about where you might spend your seed.”

Chapter Text

You trudge up the stairs to your rooms on the seventeenth floor. The stairwell of your hab block is ill-lit and damp, and at all times a part of you is listening for the hint of any sort of sound. If you ran into a neighbour or a trespasser who had slipped in unseen within its tight confines, you might never make it to your place.

But you do make it to your front door and are faced with the next challenge: digging your keys out of your bag quickly and quietly. You dig hurriedly for them while looking up and down the corridor. The lights flicker and give the impression of a very still, very dark humanoid form lurking at the farthest end of the hall. 

Your heart beats a little faster. You could get jumped before you even make it through your door, yes. But it’s not like you have anything worth taking. Anything material, that is. Despite it all, you still cling desperately to life, as anaemic and rotten as it is.

But the figure in the dark must have been a trick of the light cast from the bare bulb that dangled from the ceiling like a rotting carcass hanging from a lamppost. You take a deep and steadying breath. After all, this is how you get in every night. 

And it is always night. 

Before you were abandoned– orphaned by those that raised you– you recall a story once read to you off a yellowed pamphlet about other planets; other planets that have the daytime, too. Though they were depicted like fairytale worlds, you are sure that the sun is a profound evil. Because when you got a little older you were party to tales that seemed a little more true. 

Tales of the sun that scours, that blinds, that carves cancer into flesh. And so the dark suits you just fine. In the dark, nobody can see what you’ve done.

You enter your apartment and you lock the door. And you lock the door and lock the door and lock the door. Once all the bolts are firmly in place, you feel that something is not quite right. It feels cold inside. Colder than usual– and there’s usually frost clinging cruelly to the edges of your window. The one you can’t open; the broken one you recently fixed, because the black-souled scoundrel who ran the hab block wasn’t going to. 

And the smell of your place seems strange, too. It reeks of death, which also isn’t too far from the norm. Death seems to follow you when you stalk the streets. Its stench clings to your clothes for days. The sweet hit of rot suffuses your soul, and buries itself in your hair. 

And yet your heart beats harder and your skin feels tight. A shiver runs its skeleton fingers along your spine. 

And then you see it.

You fall to your knees at the sight of it. Your mouth falls open and you can’t control the sound that crawls out of your throat. You weep at its magnificence, for you’ve never seen such beauty. You never knew there could be beauty, really, outside of the glitter of the crusted filth on the river, or the plasteel monoliths that scrape the sky.

This is something else. Something primal. Something original. The first and most beautiful being that ever was. You want to beg. You want to do whatever it wants. Whatever it needs. 

But you know what happens to those that it finds.

The long broken doll’s fingers are quick to crawl across your face. Its black talons silence you. It smells like decomposition, and you can taste the rot. It grabs you, then, and pulls you with it. It smashes your window once again, and folding itself into odd and impossible angles, it drags you outside to carry you into the velvet night.

You know what you did. You didn’t think that anybody would find out. It was so long ago, after all. You’d covered your tracks. Throwing the evidence in the wretched gruel of the river may have been your undoing, your fear-drenched mind supplies. It must have been found. It must have washed up on some dark shore.

You’re going to die; you know this to be true. But the feeling of your kidnapper’s body against your own stirs something unspeakable within you. The heat radiating from your captor is scalding but its flesh is so shockingly soft. Underneath its silky skin you feel its coiled, tense muscles as it bounds with utter grace across the rooftops. You feel a hideous heat between your legs.

There’s an exhilaration to your flight, as well. You’ve never felt anything like this and despite the impending finality of your doom there’s a kind of freedom and sick joy to the way that you see the filth of the everyday scuttling below you. It’s an ironic kind of feeling because you know of the punishment that is to come.

What you don’t know is what form it will take. You wonder what it will do to you. You can’t stop thinking, though, of the strong muscles of its pale arms. You think of them holding you down. Holding you under its massive body. You saw what’s between its legs. You want it to keep you. For whatever it wants. It'd be better, you think, than your old gutter life. 

Where are you going, you wonder. You see the mad glint in its ebony eyes. As you imagine how it would feel moving within you– as it, climbing, takes you to the tallest spire of the tallest tower– you reach the insanity of your climax as the Night Haunter takes you away. 

Chapter Text

Maude von Valancius, Lord Captain of the Avarice Unbound, sat across from Heinrix on the other side of the ornate Regicide board. Heinrix paused for a moment with his knuckle between his teeth, before confidently settling upon a move. 

“Risky,” chided Maude. “A bold choice for your Tetrach.” 

Heinrix, as was his wont, resisted Maude’s ceaseless baiting. Unwilling to give her anything, and knowing that hers was a psychological game, he merely inclined his head silently. She moved a piece in response, in a way that seemed careless but most certainly was not. 

Heinrix looked at how things currently stood upon the board: she was putting heavy pressure on his pieces and pushing the attack. He knew that Maude was a brutal competitor, in that she liked to maximize destruction. Not a far cry from the way that she led her crew upon the field of battle.

As he carefully considered his next move, she reached across to pour him a glass of the finest amasec. He raised an eyebrow and stared at her pointedly. He knew that this would be an inappropriate situation in which to find himself inebriated. Not only because he wished to win the game, but also because he was, quite literally, at work. On the job, as it were. But most importantly, he knew that he couldn’t get drunk around her. To show any vulnerability around this veritable predator, a woman so unhinged that it sent a guilty shudder of excitement down his spine, would be a danger he could ill afford. 

And yet something shameful within him wanted to. The fear in the knowledge that she would rip him open and revel in whatever she could drink from him was horrifyingly exhilarating. She was intoxicating, even without the amasec. 

But he couldn’t let his fear plant the seeds of paranoia. One glass was nothing to him– as a powerful biomancer, he could easily purge his system of an intoxicant so quotidian. And regarding his desire for victory at the Regicide board, well. His was a psychological game, too. Of her many terrible and exciting sins, his dossier upon her didn’t neglect to acknowledge her hubris. If she thought she had the upper hand against him, her play would certainly become quite careless in actuality. 

And so he accepted her offering. He’d keep his wits about him, even after one cup. Even though her maniac energy pulled from him a strange and heretical desire for the kind of freedom she embodied, and for the kind of pleasure in which she so easily allowed herself to indulge. But he could never join her in her shocking ways, he knew. The Imperium needed him to protect it from all manner of threats. And so this strange electrifying tension between them would only be temporary. He was only watching her to gather information and to do his job. At the end of it, inevitably, he knew that they would have to part.

Absently he took a sip from the rare and expensive vintage. Instantly, he felt a black pressure within him, like strong hands holding down his soul and his self. Even groping for his powers was a slow and strenuous stretch. 

“Maude–” was all he was able to utter before it felt as if his very lips were sewn shut.

A hideous nightmare figure loomed behind the current inheritor of the von Valancious dynasty. He wanted to protest and say no. He wanted to kill it, like he should have done so many times before.

“Ah,” said the loathsome xenos creature. “Just like old times.”

And those were the last words that he heard before completely losing consciousness.

***

When next he opened his mismatched eyes he was in Maude’s huge bed. The spice of her scent lulled him into a warm awakening, but only for a moment. Too soon the rest of his highly-trained senses kicked in and he was all too aware of his physical predicament.

The rage of being tricked, and of being laid low by a filthy xenos at that, burned within him. But burning hotter still was the ache between his legs, and the excoriating pleasure emanating from his chest. Before he could launch into a blistering invective or cause the cruel powers of the warp to coalesce for him, Maude leaned down to press her lips to his own.

Instantly, fool that he was, he melted into her kiss. The poisons still coursing through his vulnerable system and the bindings at his wrists kept his flesh tight and hot. And then she pulled at the chain that connected the gilded clamps that exerted their terrible delicious pain and pleasure upon his nipples.

“Mhn…” he moaned into her mouth. 

“Oh, they really are that sensitive,” Maude said, giggling. 

He wanted to protest– that he was not fully in control of his body, that Marazhai had drugged him again and left him pliant and open and wanting. But he just gasped as the breath was stolen from him when Maude grabbed a clamp and twisted it. The ecstatic agony shot through him, straight to his hard and dripping cock.

“Oooh,” said Marazhai wickedly. “Now let me try. The mon-keigh is so very… desperate right now.” 

Heinrix pulled away from Maude’s lips with great difficulty. All he could do was shake his head until his hair fell into his strange eyes.

Marazhai ignored him and pulled cruelly upon the clamps. Somehow, the manner in which the xenos manipulated his flesh was even more stimulating than what Maude had done to him. He did his best to swallow his moan and glared poison daggers at his tormentor. 

“Yes,” Marazhai drawled, “you see the depths of my skill, mon-keigh? I am an expert in the art of agony.”

Heinrix couldn’t even curl around the warp’s insidious powers to spare him the humiliation of reacting to Marazhai’s cruelty. His hips tipped up on their own and his cock twitched as the xenos knew exactly how much to give and to take to dismantle Heinrix into his component parts.

“Maude is merely a disciple; my acolyte,” Marazhai continued. 

The xenos could boast no more, though, as he convulsed and moaned and shook. Heinrix saw that Maude had stroked his side with the Agoniser.

“Oh? Is that so, pet?” she asked cruelly. 

After a moment, Marazhai coughed and tried to regain his former hauteur. “You think yourself clever. But you do realize that you are literally using my whip to prove your point? So whose point is better proven by such an act?”

“Release me,” breathed Heinrix. 

“Oh, right,” said Maude, her distracting banter with her pet xenos momentarily forgotten. “Torture him more,” she commanded, satisfied as she apparently was with merely watching this time. “Make him come from just… touching him… there,” she said, as she pressed on both clamps.

Marazahi grinned evilly and nodded.

“I bet he could do it,” Maude whispered seductively. “He’s so strong.” She petted his thigh. “And so resilient.” She cupped his face and gazed deep into his eyes. “And we have all night!” she said gaily. 

“And many more drugs,” finished Marazhai, as he smiled and reached for Heinrix’s aching chest. 

Chapter Text

They were already in thrall to him: he had shaped and moulded and created them to be so. But even if he hadn’t, dropping them into a state of complete submission would be as easy as sliding his body into a warm pool. In his forever-long life, he had mastered not only mankind but the elegant art of control. He didn’t even require a word or focus or a triggering sound; he could just be in their presence and with a thought, a mere desire, their eyes unfocussed and they were but beautiful toys for him to puppeteer.

He easily manipulated their invisible strings. They were already together, and he had been watching them for some time. It was as easy for him to scry upon them as to bewitch them. They were, after all, in his domain. And they were, of course, his perfect children.

He had watched from his throne as they had held each other, staring into each other’s eyes and sighing and trading soft kisses. But he had much to do to maintain the Imperium, and very little time to ensure their closeness and future cooperation. A strong empire required strong bonds between his conquerors, and so he must help to cultivate and grow this love between them. 

In the end, where they were unalike, one would support the other. And together, they would continue to chase the noble goal of utter, ultimate perfection. If any rift grew between them, it would no doubt spell disaster for the galaxy. And so he helped them along in their burgeoning romance. 

They didn’t sense him when he slipped into their chambers. They weren’t aware when he put them under his complete control. But with violet and silvery eyes made soft with submission, they hastened their once-chaste exploration of each other's bodies. The Emperor seated himself in a dark corner to continue to watch them caress each other. From his throne, his psyker’s sight allowed him to witness their entwined loveliness from all angles. But in person, he was able to feel the heat of their bodies, smell their sweet arousal, and even approach to touch their softness or the strange metal of their skin.

They had stripped each other bare, now, and he smiled to himself. He had truly made Fulgrim perfect: from his long legs to his firm torso to his lovely silver hair– along with Sanguinius he was certainly one of the most beautiful beings to have ever lived. And Ferrus Manus was strong and powerful and the Emperor saw the poetry in the contrast of their forms. 

He had decided upon what he wanted to see his sons perform for him and had brought what they would need with him. Golden and sparkling he laid the items down, and he watched. Fulgrim stroked Ferrus Manus’ huge thick cock as he was sure to carefully and lovingly slick its head with his long graceful fingers. Ferrus tilted his hips up and threw his head back and closed his eyes. 

The Emperor orchestrated their pleasure as Fulgrim used the wetness on his fingers and slid them up and down a long thin smooth golden rod. With utter concentration and care, he slid it slow and deep into the slit of his brother’s cock. Ferrus Manus let out a long slow breath as the metal went into him. Fulgrim smiled hazily and turned it a little. When it moved, Ferrus’ silvery hands gripped the sheets tight.

Fulgrim, on his knees between his brother’s spread legs, looked calm and happy and content, devoid of the anxiety that threatened to leave lines upon his clear perfect skin. Ferrus Manus smiled down at him too, as his brother gently pulled and pushed the rod in and out of his cock.

With his other hand, Fulgrim gently squeezed and stroked his brother’s flesh. And then, with a vacant but devious grin, he brushed his long soft hair over one shoulder. While he stared into his brother’s iron eyes, he leaned down to press his full lips against the tip of the rod. Ferrus Manus gasped and moaned, a low rumble in his massive chest as Fulgrim began to hum the first few notes of a love song from the world where the Emperor first found him. 

The Emperor of Mankind recognized the tension in his big son’s body from all the other times he had seen him reach his climax, and he knew that he would return to his golden throne soon. 

Chapter Text

The votive candles ringed Lorgar’s prone form. He had to admit that his lord, the one whose silken strings he would pull to bring about mankind’s ultimate destiny, was made perfect. The candlelight reflecting off of the sheen of sweat upon his skin created a golden corona’s glow about him. 

He was here to repent for his sins and his shortcomings. Despite being so near to the Four in all of their glory, he still had many steps left on the road to his inevitable ascension. And so he had come to Erebus penitent. It was a gift to be able to help score and bleed the sins from his father– the power in such a position was immense. And there was also some part of him that took pleasure in having Lorgar in his hands like this. It felt good to hurt him. 

But there was also something uniquely lovely about his lord when Erebus showed him mercy, as well. Instead of the scourge or the knife, tonight Erebus lifted one of the candles from the ground. Lorgar watched him, his eyes big and wet and round as Erebus raised the red candle above his chest. The wax under the wick melted and welled up until it threatened to overflow. Gently, Erebus tipped the candle.

The hot wet wax dripped off of the candle, and splashed down upon Lorgar’s firm pectoral. It landed like a blood splatter and left Lorgar marked. He poured more hot wax down upon him, and it dripped down his lord’s ribs, leaving shocking red trails that hardened down his sides.

A drop landed upon a nipple and Lorgar arched his back and gasped. Erebus dripped some more upon his sire’s elegant collarbones, and down the words of devotion marked into his skin. He looked down to where the wax had landed and tried to divine meaning from the words that were stained and the ones that were left uncovered.

When Erebus did things like this to him, Lorgar would often become overwhelmed by sensation, emotion, guilt, and his connection to their gods. Lorgar looked up at him with his forehead creased in pain that went beyond the physical. The tears welling up in his eyes spilled down the sides of his face, flowing like the hot wax dripping down his belly. 

Erebus cupped Lorgar’s face in his hands. He wanted so badly to lean down and taste those rapturous sainted tears upon his tongue. He gently ran his fingers down his Lord’s face, running them through the wet streaks that were stained black from the kohl that rimmed Lorgar’s eyes.

With his other hand he ran his thumb across Lorgar’s sensuous lips. His sire parted them, looked up at Erebus, and sucked the tip of his thumb into the wet heat of his mouth. His eyes slipped closed and something hot and unwelcome clenched within Erebus. He had to stay focussed so as to enact the will of the gods. He had to resist the clinging urges of his flesh that threatened to distract him from the punishment of his lord.

Chapter Text

“You know, I’d always heard that we were supposed to be immune to the delightful effects of drug or alcohol poisoning.” 

Sevatar had his bodyglove peeled off down to his calves. He was sitting down, leaning against the remains of a shattered hab-block, with his hands folded carelessly behind his head. 

Sigismund, pink-cheeked and panting, sat in his lap, his ass full up with cock. Sevatar was sure that he’d live to regret this– when Sigismund sobered up, he would almost certainly come for Sevatar’s head. But more importantly, fucking in the great outdoors most certainly wasn’t it. Sevatar was sure that he’d be picking gravel out of his ass for days.

“Now I’m no Apothecary,” Sevatar began. He reached down and squeezed the substantial meat of Sigismund’s ass. It made him moan. “But I’m fairly certain that your Preomnor–” Sevatar rubbed Sigismund’s belly “–and your Oolitic Kidney–” he pressed a few fingers roughly into Sigismund’s side “–are supposed to filter out what appears to have turned you into a needy, desperate whore.”

Sevatar raised his eyebrows as his cruel comment made Sigismund moan once more. It was always endlessly fascinating to see firsthand the effect that he seemed to have on people.

“I suppose you must have had a lot, then,” Sevatar said thoughtfully. “You’re a big boy, after all.” He reached down to curl his hand around Sigismund’s huge, rock-hard cock.

Really, Sevatar was very much aware that a really dedicated Marine could find a way to get well and truly wasted. Theirs was an enormous galaxy, with many wonderful things within it. And now, with these new strange chaotic powers infesting their lives, along with the old ways of the warp, it was even easier to deprogram the coding in their mutilated meat.

Sevatar had seen many of his ignoble brothers find some sort of fungus or root, powder or fermented fluid that would addle their wits and ease whatever questionable morals they might have had left. The real question, though, was how such a good boy like Sigismund had got his hands on something strong enough to get him riding Sevatar’s dick like his life and noble soul depended on it.

Sevatar grabbed Sigismund’s chin and looked critically into his bleary eyes. 

“What brought you so low?” Sevatar asked him. “What happened that made you come crawling to me?” 

The agony of the question made Sigismund shudder, but Sevatar held on to the sides of his face and forced him to stare into the night-black depths of his eyes.

“What happened to being steadfast, brave and true?” he asked. “What happened to being an impregnable fortress?” He fucked up hard into Sigismund, which made him gasp.

“What happened to you that made you beg for my cock? Made you crave being hurt by the red hands of the traitorous Prince of Crows?” If Sigismund needed pain, he could be generous and rub raw salt in whatever wound had brought him here.

“What did you do?” he whispered cruelly. Sigismund surged forward and pressed his lips to Sevatar’s, silencing for a moment his brutal interrogation.

Chapter Text

Khârn’s arms were suspended from the ceiling, his wrists bound together with their chain. It hurt, and that was good.

He couldn’t see Argel Tal as he paced around him, circling him like a hungry hunter. But the blindfold blackening his vision didn’t matter that much– he could still smell the hellfire spice of the Word Bearer as the dark passenger that rode with him altered his form. He could hear him, too: hear his quickened breathing and his heavy hoofed tread and the rapid beating of his twin hearts. 

Despite the blindfold he could almost see his brother’s smile. He grinned back; he couldn’t help it. He heard Argel Tal’s softly echoed chuckle in response. 

Khârn wondered where Argel Tals’s sharp claws would land now. He could feel the man’s movements, yes, but with sight stolen from him it was difficult to tell exactly where next their tips would sink. The mere anticipation of pain had his hips twitching, and it stole his hot breath. The greedy starving Nails craved the agony, and they buzzed with need inside his skull.

But Khârn couldn’t reach out for Argel Tal and force his bare scarred skin against the daemonic spikes protruding from his brother’s changed flesh. Chained as he was he couldn’t even reach down to find release in that way, either. But even if he could, well…

To increase the pain and please the Nails, Khârn’s cock was encased in cruel metal. There was relief in the discomfort of becoming erect inside its tight confines, but this special cage had a vicious secret inside. Wicked spikes pointed inwards within it, and it was almost impossible to will himself soft with the Nails’ constant brutal screaming.

And so every time Argel Tal blessed him with glorious agony, the Nails rewarded him with a hot burst of pleasure. His cock hardened and the spikes pressed into his hungry flesh. He could feel blood down between his legs just as it ran down his chest and arms and torso.

Argel Tal slowly trailed the tip of one razor claw down Khârn’s chest. He gasped and shivered as it cleanly parted flesh. The scars Argel Tal gifted him would join the ones from his world and his father, his oath-brothers and from battle. His body was a canvas marked by love and brotherhood, and his blood flowed to appease the Nails and some thirstier presence that seemed to lurk within him.

He smelled blood and he tasted blood and it made the Nails sing. Argel Tal gave him more, knew he could take it and knew exactly how to give it. Khârn ached with adoration for his brother; with the knowledge that Argel Tal loved him enough to do this to him. He demonstrated that feeling as best he could by spreading his legs and baring his throat and opening himself in utter vulnerable submission to the man before him. Contrary to his lord’s teachings and the will of the Nails as it was, he had to express his gratitude to his brother in some small way.

+Anything+ Argel Tal’s voice in his head responded to his unspoken need. +Anything you want+

And Khârn gasped as down by his hip he felt his brother cut him. He moaned long and loud as Argel Tal left a pattern of bloody lines on him. Khârn tried to visualize the shapes being made but the Nails kept pushing hot pleasure into him. It was all he could do not to drool and slur when he asked,

“What does it say?”

“Just signing my work,” said Argel Tal to the art that he had made.

Chapter Text

Terroir Epicurios of the Crimson Grail, Master of the Sixth Feast, gazed lovingly at his little bird with the six perfect eyes the Prince had blessed him with. He could lose hours just looking at the sweet thing in its pretty gilded cage. Terroir sighed as he thought about how fortunate he was to have won such a plaything. 

“Hello, little morsel,” he said, as he stuck his fingers between the bars of its cage. It couldn’t bite him, not with the mask always adhered to its face. The noises it made filtered through, though, and he retracted his hand and clapped with delight.

“Yes!” he said. “Sing for me, birdie.” 

In truth, he knew that he shouldn’t really have his little sweetmeat. For the Perfect Prince took what the Carrion Lord had cursed him with and made it holy, and he had been raised up by his band to a privileged position of great importance. His Omophagea had been enhanced during his slow transformation as he lived longer and longer under the auspices of his god. He could eat any slave or serf or servitor, any prisoner they had captured and could glean from their devouring anything he needed to know.

The first thing he would do is fatten up his little feast. He’d feed them such sweets and treats, the likes of which they’d never before seen. Generously he would fill them to the brim, stuff them to bursting with lovely meals that he’d make with his own two six-fingered hands. 

Next, he would carefully and lovingly slaughter each offering, bleeding them with a prayer to the Dark Prince. He would search through his personal library, through shelf after shelf bursting with recipes that he had gathered from dead planets and lost peoples that he had helped slaughter during the Long War. He would select the perfect destiny for his prey, and then he would indulge in his artistry and the succulent truths he would carve from their meat. 

This was to be the fate of his adorable pet. But he loved the little sounds that it made when he fed it, and so he kept it in its cage. They had lost the fight against its many siblings, he had since learned. They might have emerged victorious if he could have supplied his brothers with the intel his birdie held within its flesh. But he found that he didn’t care. He was pleased with his prize, and that was what mattered most.

He hummed to himself as he looked at the state of the poor thing. He had raised it well– he repaired its drab little coat with the utmost care when it tore it trying to free itself the first few times. He tried to remember to make a mental note to sew it some new outfits. But it was so hard to hold on to ideas sometimes, especially after he had spent time with the bitesized thing. He liked to inhale the pink spiced fumes of the his cabin afterwards and dream of new recipes and new things.

He heard a knock upon his door. He was worried that it was his lord, come to finally take his toy from him. It would be a shame if he had to eat it, really, but he’d prefer to keep it to play with for just a little while longer. 

Chapter Text

Marduk Tamaris– formerly of the Perfecti, now the champion of the radiant lord of the Third– floated above the writhing bare bodies assembled in the throne room. 

His naked flesh was suspended by silken ropes, which had cruel hidden barbs of gold and shards of glass sewn into them. They were wound tight about him, artfully knotted and tied. They formed a delicate intersecting pattern across his chest and his legs and his arms, cutting into his skin and slicing him sweetly.

Some distant part of him that could still want wished that they were tighter. That old striving segment of his soul needed its sharp hidden gifts to cut him deeper. Even the intoxicants that strangled his system couldn’t keep him engaged in the spectacle that was being made of him. All he could think of was the end, the inevitable looming future where some other, younger, stronger, and more beautiful body hung from the domed mosaic ceiling.

“My children,” came the sibilant silken voice of his lord. Fulgrim smiled at the cheer that rose from the attending humans and mutants and daemons and Chaos Marines. “Magnanimous as I am, I have prepared for you a perfect treat.” 

The crowd roared again, hungry for some new entertainment. Tamaris watched with distant detachment as they all looked up at him, taking in the way that he was totally exposed to their ravenous, frenzied gazes. 

“Behold, my beloveds, my gift,” said Fulgrim, as he slithered up to meet Tamaris where his swaying body dangled down. 

Tamaris’ head hung down towards the swirling, hypnotic patterns of the tiled floor. And so a new and distant spark ignited within him as his vision of his lord was inverted. It was a novel thing to see Fulgrim upside down. The flame inside him was fed when Fulgrim reached out to caress the side of his face with one poisoned, golden talon. It burned for a bit but by now Tamaris was mostly immune to the delicious effects of the toxin. 

The cut in his face throbbed and healed. Fulgrim leaned down to press his lips to the place where the scar glowed momentarily, as if to make it better. It burned again, but the knowledge that later tonight Fulgrim’s lips would be upon another quenched the flame.

As he glided back towards his throne, Fulgrim snapped with two hands, and made arcane beckoning gestures with his others. From beneath Tamaris’ hanging form bruised purple smoke began to gather, as it seeped from between the cracks of the tiles on the ground. It curled and twisted, and slithered around the necks and bodies of serfs and slaves and men that stood too close to the centre of the room. Some of them it slowly squeezed to death. For others, it tightened around them until they burst. Some delirious supplicants lost their heads. 

It seeped into the ears and mouths and eyes of some, and glittery black ichor issued from their mouths until they dropped down dead. Others were pulled down, pulled into the cracks, squeezed into the ground where they were devoured in a hot spray of blood. 

But the summoned entity seemed to have sucked from them whatever sacrifice it required. The dark purple smoke solidified, then, into thick pulsing tentacles. Tamaris watched Fulgrim smile as their undulating limbs slowly rose towards him.

With dead eyes he saw one tentacle squeeze between his legs, where they were spread wide by the cruel silken ropes that bound him. The other moved towards his mouth. 

He wished for a stronger drug, a harsher high when one slid into his hole. His body seemed numb to such subtle stimulation, even when the tentacle thickened and grew inside of him, pushing so deep into his guts he wondered if it were possible for it to burst out the other side. 

But even if it could have snaked its way through his strange organs, the other tentacle pushed past his lips. He opened his throat to it, and imagined it meeting its twin within him. 

It thickened and widened too, and he heard Fulgrim’s beautiful nightmare laugh as it stretched his throat and his ass. Another tentacle rose up to caress the bulge in his neck, before it wrapped around him there, too.

He wondered distantly if it would take his head like it took so many others earlier. The thought didn’t terrify him. It was only one of many possibilities, all of which led to the inevitable black empty void of the prosaic and the mundane.

Another tentacle slipped inside his hole to join the first. He felt himself stretch so wide. The pain would have once made him wild– and the pleasure as it pressed against him too– but there was only the dull ache of absence within him. 

Every time he seemed to claw closer to completion, the crushing boulder he was pushing seemed to slide back down the slope. All the eyes in the room were no longer on him, now seeking out some stranger pleasure.

Even Fulgrim was looking away now, stroking a tentacle himself and pushing one down to the gaping wound he kept fresh upon his torso. 

Tamaris closed his eyes and let the thing take him. The serrated sounds and ecstatic music in the room began to fade to him. He would stay here until he was released. Or perhaps Fulgrim would forget him; would finally discard him. His flesh would melt and his bones would hang here as a mouldering warning to all those who craved their father’s light.

Chapter Text

“Remove your gauntlets.” His primarch’s voice echoed around the room like a whisper in a cold tomb. 

Jago Sevatarion looked down at his red hands and he smirked. “Now?” he asked. “Really? This is the hour of your choosing?” Konrad’s sallow face remained impassive. “And with no time to settle my affairs.” 

He sounded affronted as he removed one crimson gauntlet and then another. “And what of all the debts I’m owed?” Carelessly, he dropped one gauntlet to the ground. “The honour duels left unfought?” The other crashed to the hard stone floor. “I had hoped that I had many more dark alleys to stalk, and miscreants to terrify.” He looked up at his lord and master, his father and his primarch, and he raised an eyebrow and smiled. “And what about my first kiss?”

Not even that was enough to crack his sire’s stern countenance. Sevatar thought that for perhaps a moment, he saw a brief sparkle in his father’s eye– the kind that he had almost forgotten; the kind that would appear so much more often before the primarch’s precipitous decline. But it was gone in a moment, and he realized that he had probably conjured it from a strange place of naive nostalgia.

He considered what was no doubt his impending destruction. He had failed his primarch, and this was almost certainly the moment in which he would pay the price. He didn’t feel regret, he realized, or an uncouth need to cling to life. He felt neither sad, nor curious, nor desperate. He wondered how a normal man might react to such proximity to his inevitable doom.

He looked his father in his haunting black eyes. In his darker hours, he feared that they were mirrors to his own madness. “Fair enough,” he said simply. “I await your judgement.”

Konrad Curze, sitting upon his throne, beckoned his failed son forward. Sevatar went dutifully. His primarch raised his clawed hand, and Sevatar held his gaze, neither bowing his head nor closing his eyes to what was to come. Curze’s filthy hand dropped, and it landed upon Sevatar’s shoulder. Sevatar tilted his head as a black crow might. 

“My lord?” 

But Curze didn’t answer. Instead he exerted terrible, irresistible pressure upon Sevatar’s shoulder. Sevatar dropped to his knees before his sire. In those sick moments in which he was strangled by his own powers, he had seen the way that it ended, and it wasn’t like this. It would go a little differently, he knew. But perhaps his cursed blood could lie, too.

“Your sins are indeed great,” his father told him. Sevatar was intimately familiar with this truth. “And so you will face my judgement.” Sevatar’s mouth dropped open for a moment as his primarch reached down to the tanned flap of human skin hanging between his legs. 

“A lighter punishment, this,” came the haunting music of Curze’s voice.

It had been some time since his father had made Sevatar laugh. Something in the dark void of his unnatural hearts clenched. He would yet live, it seemed. Konrad pulled his cock out of his baleful loincloth. Or maybe he wouldn’t, he thought.

Curze’s cock was huge and hard, massive even to an Astartes. Sevatar swallowed, and he smiled. He was never one to back away from a challenge, no matter how ludicrous. He’d taken Sigismund and Khârn and lived. A moment with his primarch’s cock surely wouldn't be enough to wipe him from this world.

“Yes,” Sevatar whispered. “I have been naughty, haven’t I?” Curze pursed his thin lips and Sevatar felt that that was a win. “Daddy,” he finished, always ready as he was to push his tainted luck.

And that must have been enough for the Night Haunter. For Curze reached out for Sevatar’s short hair and dragged his face forehead. Without gentleness or what a sane man would call affection, he pushed the thick head of his cock against Sevatar’s lips. His son was quick to part them and to let his primarch in.

Curze’s cock filled him so quickly and so completely, it seemed to push everything out of him. His worries and his self and his sins, yes, seemed cleansed by the driving power of his father’s erection. 

Thoughts were scoured from his head as all he could do was open his jaw and his throat to the punishing force within it. He drooled over it, unable to swallow, reduced to nothing but a receptacle for his father’s violent need. 

It was incredible. It was a gift. He didn’t know what he did to deserve this, but he had to make sure to find out so that he could do it again.

He choked and gagged on it and his father did not relent. He fucked his throat deep and Sevatar was only made to take it.

“Sev,” Konrad sighed, and that was enough for Sevatar. Untouched and unaided his climax hit him like a chainblade to the chest. He was worried, then, that this was an execution. That Konrad was killing him here, asphyxiating him and brutalizing with so much mind-cleansing pleasure that his men would never see him again.

He clung to the thought as Konrad came, spilling cum so thick and copious down his throat. He swallowed it all. He would always do the most, whatever was asked of him, for his lord. 

He looked up at his primarch with dazed ebon eyes. He smiled as Konrad reached down to wipe stray slick from his lips. 

“Your punishment,’ whispered the Night Haunter.

“Chastened I remain,” coughed Sevatar, and he smiled.

Chapter Text

The lumens and glow-globes in his quarters lit the space to a lovely predawn glow. Fulgrim cherished moments like these: Ferrus Manus still lay sleeping, and all was quiet and still. Well, mostly quiet. While his sons had not yet come to rouse him from his rest, soft snores were rising from the man at his side. Fulgrim smiled. The sounds were comforting and familiar, peaceful in a way precious little else was in the lives of two conquerors.

These moments were also few and far between, and while their ships stood at high anchor together, Fulgrim would treasure each and every one. And so he gazed down at his lover with soft eyes, taking in the powerful curve of his calves and the dark hair on his strong thighs.

He looked at Ferrus’ broad chest and felt a lapse in his profound self-control as he brought his hands down to gently squeeze the softness around his middle. It made Ferrus shift and grumble in his sleep and Fulgrm laughed quietly. 

He knew that he should let Ferrus rest after the intensity of their exertions the night before. But Fulgrim just couldn’t resist– he wanted more; all that he could get of his love. He sighed as he ran his fingers softly down Ferrus’ muscular shoulder, around his biceps and his triceps, and down his arm until his fingertips met living metal. 

He caressed his brother there, too, before he slid his hand into Ferrus’, twining their fingers together. He huffed out a little sound of impatience. He had let Ferrus sleep long enough. How much longer could he be expected to wait? And as the Emperor’s sons, their strong bodies didn’t even need that much sleep anyway.

If Ferrus was cross with him, he’d make it up to him, he was sure. And so he slipped his hand out of Ferrus’, and this time he brought it down between the other primarch’s legs. He rubbed his brother’s cock gently until it started to stir beneath his hand.

“Mm?” Ferrus said, his voice a rough warm growl, cozy like their room and their warm bed.

“Good morning, love,” Fulgrim murmured. 

Ferrus rolled over the cupped Fulgrim’s beautiful face between the cool metal of his palms. 

“Still want more?” he asked, grinning. He leaned towards his lover. “Greedy,” he whispered against Fulgrim's lips.

“For you?” Fulgrim asked, as his eyes slipped shut. “Always,” he whispered back, and he kissed his brother long and slow and deep.

Chapter Text

 “There,” said Coriolanus. “Now you’re perfect, just like me.”

Even the sound of his former friend’s voice hurt Sagax. Physically, yes, as it now carried a sharp sonic edge that seemed to do damage to the fabric of his soul. But every changed and mutilated thing about the Emperor’s Child before him reminded him of what they once had that was now lost. 

Coriolanus wrenched the Iron Hand’s head back with a harsh grip in his hair. It had grown longer, now, much longer than was practical for a warrior of the Xth. But he supposed that after Isstvan, he wasn’t a warrior anymore. 

He was a prisoner; a slave, or something worse. He was kneeling on the floor, wearing high-heeled shoesl that were locked to his ankles and to a bar that kept his legs bound and spread. His wrists were tied behind his back, too. 

“Look,” Coriolanus crooned. “See how beautiful I’ve made you..”

Coriolanus’ harsh grip forced him to look up at the ceiling, where a gaudy gilded mirror reflected his degradation back down at him. Instead of a bodyglove, service fatigues, duty robes, or the power armour that kept him alive through so many battles, his muscular body was barely hidden by tight and revealing scraps of clothing. 

“Coriolanus,” Sagax said, as if he could convince his fallen brother of his heresy and his folly. “Cor.”

“Master, remember?” Coriolanus said kindly, before he struck Sagax across the face. 

Sagax turned to the side and spit blood. The cut on his lip clotted and healed but there was still a smear of red across his face.

“Oh, you’ve gone and made me ruin it…” he said, pouting. He dragged a thumb through the mess of Sagax’s painted lips. “But the pain enhances the pleasure, one supposes…” 

Coriolanus hummed to himself happily as he seemed to have decided that he was satisfied with the way that he had rimmed Sagax’s eyes with kohl and rouged his cheeks. 

‘You’re all ready for them now, I think!” 

“C-” he started again, before his erstwhile brother glared at him with burning pink eyes before leaning down to grab his throat and squeeze. 

“It looks like we still have much more training to do,” Coriolanus told him dangerously. 

Sagax’s third lung wasn’t helping him here. It occurred to him Coriolanus might kill him like this, and some vile cowardly part of him he thought had been erased before he even became a neophyte whispered to him that death would free him from what was to come. But he couldn’t die yet. First he’d have to free Coriolanus from the grip of his madness. When he could finally escape from his bondage and bring Coriolanus redemption through total destruction, then he might be ready to die. But until his brother’s holy murder, he must face whatever new way Coriolanus would defile and violate him next.

Coriolanus released his grip before Sagax lost consciousness 

“Will you be a good girl for them?" Coriolanus asked him sweetly. 

He shook his head no, and Coriolanus smiled, an ugly and dangerous look that Sagax never could have even imagined, before all this. 

“That’s all right. I’m sure that they’ll find your resistance most delicious,” Coriolanus told him. “I can make them pay extra to punish you,” he said thoughtfully. Coriolanus rose to open the door to his quarters. Sagax craned his head to look around him. There was a long line of armoured bodies outside his doorway .

“The Euphoric Host needs funds and resources, if we’re to bring the glory to our lord that he deserves. And the Grand Bacchanal is in need of repairs." Coriolanus stood aside and the men started filing into the room. 

“You’ll earn your keep aboard her eventually.”

Chapter Text

Amit’s chest heaved with the exhilaration and exertion of battle. The hot thirst for violence and for something red and wet and worse made his mouth water. He spat blood to the side and his partner shoved his shoulder hard.

“Are we trading nicknames?” Kargos asked. “Except if that guy–” Kargos motioned to the body on the floor– “gets ‘Flesh Tearer,’ what does that leave me?”

“‘Apothecary’ serves,” Amit said, turning to leave the arena. The cheering men who were drunk on fighting and the Nails made sure to move out of his way. “And he’s dead. What need has he for a nickname?”

“He’s earned it,” Kargos told him. “He did a number on you.” He caught up and motioned to the massive gash across Amit’s muscled chest. The damage was such that an Astartes’ healing powers were insufficient to heal it. Dark blood oozed sluggishly from where it couldn’t close. “You might consider calling for an Apothecary,” said Kargos, grinning.

Amit sighed. “I’m fine.”

Kargos pulled the chain that connected their wrists. “And I think I know where you might find one,” he continued, undeterred.

Amit could have stopped him if he really wished, and that might have been fun. A fight after a bout to Sanguis Extremis might be an exciting challenge, and it would certainly please the Nails for him to do so. But Amit let him lead them to the Apothecarion. 

It was unsurprisingly empty, as most everyone was either fighting, or watching a bout in the pits. Much like Amit, if anyone got hurt, they’d deal with it later. Blood was the priority in the bowels of the Conqueror, not its staunching. 

“Get on with it,” Amit told him, when the door slid closed behind them. 

“Lie down on that gurney,” Kargos told him. “So I can properly examine you.”

Amit raised his eyebrows. Kargos grinned and there was blood in his teeth.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Amit turned to stretch out on the plasteel table.

“Now, let’s see what we have here.”

Kargos sauntered over and laughed as he pulled himself up on the table too. He slung a leg over Amit’s waist to straddle his hips, his thighs spread wide.

“I’ve never received treatment like this before,” Amit said. But he rested his hands on Kargos’ scarred thighs.

“Who’s the Apothecary here?” Kargos asked, with mock-offense at Amit’s questioning of his methods. 

“I could always go out and find someone more qualified.”

Kargos paused as if considering the possibility. “No you can’t.”

Amit inclined his head as if in agreement. These days, the Nails seemed to be robbing more warriors of the XIIth of their senses every day. 

Amit swallowed as Kargos ran his rough hands down the massive gash in his flesh. “Are you here to fix me, healer, or make it worse?”

“One and then the other, I think,” Kargos said. “But maybe not in that order.”

He ran his fingers through the hot wet slit in his chain-brother, the red of Amit’s blood staining his fingers. Without breaking the Blood Angel’s gaze, he slowly sucked the red essence off his fingers. Just the motion made Amit’s mouth water again. 

Kargos barked a harsh laugh and dipped his fingers in his brother again. Amit watched as Kargos lowered them to his mouth and wiped them across his lips. Amit caught his fingers and slowly sucked his own blood off of them. The World Eater could feel that Amit was hard underneath him. 

“It looks bad, but I have a prescription for you,” Kargos said, and he reached behind himself with fingers wet with Amit’s spit and blood.

Chapter Text

If anybody found out, he would rip their spine from their body with his bare hands. 

His armour regularly shot heat suppressants into the interface ports in his body. The scent of blood of those he’d killed for his legion overpowered the sweet smell of his pheromones. His self control around his men was brutal and complete. 

But when it was just him and the Warmaster, the desperate needs of his body took over.

He’d be soaking wet in his bodyglove from just the hot scent of his primarch. He was made to need Horus in every way a man could desire another, and the ache in him made him spread and present himself, wide and wet and open for the Warmaster. There was no one else in the galaxy he would do this for, but for his primarch he burned to submit.

Horus mounted him with enthusiasm, smiling and filling him and pounding his slick hole hard. His primarch knew that he was built to take anything; was strong enough to take Horus’ huge cock hard and deep. 

Having Horus on top of him, mounting him like this– being surrounded by his scent and his hot touch made him feel like he was losing his mind. On nights like these he wanted nothing more than to be bred: to be filled with the Warmaster’s seed and to provide him with more strong warrior sons. 

He knew Horus wanted this too, but as his First Captain his place was at his side and upon the field of battle. It wouldn’t do to have a belly swollen with his multitudinous issue, as badly as he craved having a womb full of his father’s children.

He groaned long and low when Horus sank his teeth into the back of his neck. 

“You belong to me,” Horus growled against his throat, licking the sweat off him at the place where his teeth had marked him. “Mine, all mine.” The hot hungry core of Abaddon wished the bruises and broken skin would last. Not for his Legion but for him would be evidence of his lord’s favour. He could tattoo them on, he thought, like he had marked the Warmaster’s name indelibly upon his skin-- the flesh that belonged only to him.

Horus pulled out and grabbed Abaddon, roughly flipping him before driving back inside his soaking hole. Nobody else was big or strong enough to move Abaddon like that. The thought sent a hot shock through him.

He stared up at Horus as he fucked him, his thin lips parted and his eyes unfocussed. Horus brushed his long hair away from his face where it was sticking, sweat-slick, to his cheek. Horus’ huge hands rested on either side of the bulging muscles of his neck. He didn’t ask first: he didn’t have to. Abaddon’s life, his body, and his soul were in his master’s hands. He could do what he wanted to him and it would only make Abaddon harder and wetter.

Horus squeezed his hands and Abaddon moaned. He needed to live for his primarch, so he could be by side and kill and fight for him. But to have his life in his hands like this, belonging to him and owned wholly by him, sent a hot bolt of lust through his guts. Horus could do what he wanted to his body and he would take it; would follow him anywhere.

He felt his hole tighten around Horus’ big cock, and he felt his own twitch. His eyes rolled back in his head as even his third lung struggled to keep him conscious. Yes, he wanted to beg, but couldn’t. Don’t stop. But Horus kept smiling down at him, and kept pushing his strong body to its limit, trusting him not to break.

Just when he thought he might lose consciousness, he felt a huge hard pressure against his rim. He fought to relax, to let it in, but Horus pushed hard and he felt his wet hole stretch wide to accommodate his master’s massive knot. Horus plugged him up and groaned as he filled him with his thick hot primarch’s seed. 

Abaddon gripped him tight, feeling his body clench and spasm and rock as he came untouched upon the giant knot that stretched him wide.

Chapter Text

After the beautiful violence of their victory, the attention of the assembled audience wandered. They sniffed out another fight, encircling four other strong men to watch them cut and slice each other. Sigismund watched them go, and drawn by the electric energy in the air like a hound on a leash, turned to join them.

But he was stopped dead as the chain around his wrist tightened and jangled. Khârn had pulled his muscular arm back and held him fast.

“And what happens next?” Sigismund asked, feeling the tightness of anticipation seeping from Khârn’s sweat-slick skin. “Another round?”

With hot sudden violence Khârn yanked their chain. Sigismund, high from the endorphins and the fighting, let his big body be moved. 

“You’ve got to fuck me, actually,” Khârn told him. The look in his eyes was a little unhinged. Sigismund probably shouldn’t have found it so thrilling. “After we win.”

He smiled down at his cousin, whose powerful body was thrumming with wild energy. “Is that so?” 

“Oh yeah,” Khârn said, his voice a bit of a hungry growl. He stepped into Sigismund’s space, his bare flesh close. “It’s World Eaters tradition.” 

Sigismund leaned down, his face right up in his cousin’s. He was still grinning at the pleasure and the insanity of it all. “Is it?” He slipped his arms around Khârn and he felt pulses of agony and excitement running hot under his skin. Khârn laughed a wild laugh. “Just like chaining men and weapons to your wrists?”

“Yeah,” said Khârn, straining up to whisper against his lips. “Just like that, actually.” 

In the back of his mind Sigismund was aware of the cheering and screaming coming from so nearby. There were men everywhere, but their attention was currently elsewhere. But he was so keyed up from fighting with Khârn, from holding him, that he couldn’t imagine taking the time to drag him somewhere private. His blood was on fire and he wanted him now. Khârn seemed to feel the same.

The World Eater pulled him into a dark corner, behind a thick plasteel girder. They were barely bathed by shadows before Sigismund slammed him up against the wall. They stared into each other’s eyes for a hot slick second before any thoughts or considerations could occur. There was only the hunger and the need as Sigismund leaned down to kiss the blood from Khârn’s lips and the pain from his mind.

Khârn pulled away and pushed his hand under Sigismund’s loincloth. He wrapped his hand  around his big cock and squeezed. "You gonna fuck me with that?” he breathed, hot across Sigismund’s lips. “Or did you swear some kind of vow of chastity to the VIIth?”

The rough roar of the crowd reached a powerful crescendo as some lethal blow must have just been landed. 

“If your cock doesn’t work you can always fuck me with that sword,” Khârn said, with a challenge in his wild eyes that Sigismund now found was a surefire way to rile him up. For a moment he was struck by the terrible blasphemy of the image, of pushing the hilt of his sword into Khârn, stretching and ruining him with an implement of death and a tool to impose zealous justice.

He sucked in a hot breath, grabbed Khârn, spun him, and slammed him into the wall. He leaned to whisper into his ear.

“It works just fine,” he growled, as he reached down into Khârn’s loincloth. 

Chapter Text

Ahriman stood with his brothers before their primarch as Magnus lectured on the effect of the Empyrean on chromatic perception. He was clad in brand new ceremonial armour that his cousin in the IVth had lovingly constructed for him. He smiled behind his helmet as he thought of Forrix and his beautifully crafted generous gift.

In that moment he was suddenly grateful for the presence of his helmet as well– and for his facility with biomancy and his mastery of the higher enumerations, for Forrix’s lovely gift turned out to be more than it had initially seemed. For all his precognitive powers, he could never have guessed what special features Forrix had installed in his present.

+Forrix+

His own name in his head was more moan than admonishment. Forrix smiled behind his helmet, too. Ahriman had tried on the armour, it seemed. 

“Yes?” he voxxed over their private channel. 

Ahriman’s voice in his head seemed steadier. He must have exerted his incredible self control over what was happening to his body. 

+I don’t believe that your modifications to my armour are Mechanicum-sanctioned+

Forrix’s quiet laugh sounded like static over their vox-channel. “Don’t concern yourself with that overmuch,” he said. “I don’t plan on turning my schematics over for mass production. You’re wearing Mark 1.0, which will be the one and only version.”

A soft, shuddering sigh melted into his mind as the secret elements of the armour that Forrix remotely activated continued to buzz and vibrate in and around Ahriman’s flesh. 

+And what incredible timing. The primarch is here!+

Forrix huffed out an amused exhalation. “It could be worse,” he said. “I could have altered your battle plate.” 

Ahriman’s breathless laugh seeped into his skin. His shaky words smothered his soul. +How petty of you to take revenge+

“Petty revenge? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Forrix thought back to the last time the two of them were together. Ahriman was just as creative as he was when it came to using their skills for pleasure. He had displayed his impressive control over some kind of fire magic, and had used the gentle flames to scorch Forrix’s bare skin. 

The marks had been temporary, of course, due to his body’s natural healing and Ahriman’s other arcane abilities. The pain had been exhilarating, but their play had also made his hearts hurt. For the small burns reminded him of the way heat had once melted his body in an action that Ahriman could never seem to remember. 

But Forrix would make new memories with Ahriman, even if their bodies were as far away as they are now. Even if something had gone amiss with his mind, Forrix would make sure that Ahriman’s body would remember their connection. 

From where he stood he turned up the vibrations on Ahriman’s new armour. His cousin’s high sound of pleasure echoed throughout his mind.

Chapter Text

“This is great, honestly, I really think it is,” Honsou said, stretching ostentatiously and leaning back upon this throne. Light glinted off the silvery metal of his stolen arm. “You guys really add to the decor.” 

He put his feet up on the lower back of the big sergeant. When his huge footrest made a muffled noise of protest, he dug the metal heel of his boot into it. Pasanius wriggled a bit, but he couldn’t go far. The hook in his ass was connected to a collar around his neck, and with one arm, he was stuck in place, with his face down and his ass up. Honsou laughed at his attempt to buck him off. 

“I don’t know why you thought that you could escape me,” he said, not expecting an answer. Both former Ultramarines were gagged, and could only make muted sounds of outrage and displeasure. That was fine; they weren’t here for their conversation, currently. They were here to liven up the aesthetics and the atmosphere. While he usually kept things pretty practical– he was more an iron guy than a flesh one– it was nice to change it up once and a while; really keep people guessing.

He grinned, currently immensely satisfied with his life and the direction in which it was heading. They had told him he couldn’t do it– as a mongrel and a halfbreed and a dozen other derogatory epithets– but so far it seemed to him that he was doing it just fine. He had his nemesis on his knees at his feet, and it really seemed like things could only go up from there.

“I deserve a celebratory drink,” he said, neither to his assembled body guards nor the Newborn nor his toys, but more to himself. “A toast.”

He reached down to the platter that sat upon Uriel Ventris’ straight back. He too was kept still and stiff by the anal hook attached to his collar. Honsou reached for a goblet of the strongest drink, but his silvery hand knocked it over.

“Oops,” he said, his voice completely deadpan. “Look what I’ve done.” 

The ale had spilled down Ventris’ sides and onto his stone and steel floor. His nemesis-turned-possession made an unhappy sound.

“Looks like you’ll have to clean that one up,” Honsou told him. He reached down to remove the gag between his rival’s lips. “With your mouth,” he said, as he grabbed Ventris’ hair, which had grown out somewhat in his captivity.

“Let him go!” were the first enraged words to leave his lips. His fellow Ultramarine made a pained sound behind his gag.

“I don’t think I’ll be doing that,” Honsou told him. “But I could do much worse, if you don’t start moving. I’m sure he doesn't need that other arm for anything, right?”

Ventris looked at him with utter loathing in his eyes, but with a relentless soft blush that spread across his cheeks. Honsou, ever the magnanimous master, pulled him down by the hair to better help him lick up what had been spilled. 

“You weren’t a very good Ultramarine, and you make an indifferent table. Let’s see how you do as a cleaning slave.” 

Honsou released Ventris’ hair and pushed his face down into the ground. When he stood up, he started undoing the hidden latches on his armour. Whenever he saw Ventris like this, he just couldn’t resist him. In front of an audience like this or alone in his chambers, when he had the man naked and vulnerable, he just couldn’t hold back. Nothing could stop him from having him now.

Chapter Text

Elver worked like a hunted man. 

Klaxons were blaring and red emergency lights were flashing with the regularity of a racing heart. Their continued survival depended on that of the Sheldroon, and her life depended upon Elver’s ability to make right the catastrophic failures now occurring in her life support systems.

Not only was the scalding pressure of his impending, terrible demise pushing him ever onwards, but so was the feeling of the hot gaze of a god on the back of his neck. Somewhere in the deep shadows of the ship lurked Konrad Curze. Elver was intimately familiar with his presence, and even if the primarch’s skin-tightening and knee-buckling aura didn’t creep across his flesh, he could still smell the spiced blood reek of him so horribly nearby.

“If you’re so bored of standing there, why don’t you come fix it yourself!” Elver screamed, a pathetic catch in his voice as he raised it. Normally he wouldn’t speak so suicidally to his master, but terror and stress and the inevitability of his death imposed upon him the momentary insanity of not caring whether the ship blew up or Curze tore his ragged flesh to shreds. Also, if Curze really wanted to, his prodigious, staggering intellect and skill would surely be enough to fix what ailed the ship. 

“The ship’s inner workings interest me no longer.” Curze’s voice, silken like a burial shroud, confirmed Elver’s suspicion that he knew everything there was to know about the Sheldroon and could easily make her right again. His frustration at the realization was smothered by the implication that Curze really was bored. Elver would have to solve the ship’s issues quickly, not only to save their lives, but also to find some novel entertainment for his lord, lest his flesh suffer for it.

Another deranged part of his psyche whispered to him that he was being tested, and he suddenly wanted a good grade in impressing the Night Haunter, something that was both normal to want and possible to achieve.

“Aha!” he cried, the triumphant sound more bestial than that of a man, as he finally soldered the right wires to get the ship to cease her endless screaming. For a cold moment all the emergency lighting shut off, and Elver was bathed in impenetrable darkness as the ship’s systems restarted. 

As the fear of the ship’s potential death faded, a new cold terror gripped him. The Night Haunter’s ragged breathing filled his ears, almost as loud as the pounding of his heart. He was too late, and he didn’t need to dream the truth of it to know. 

When the lights snapped on, the white ruined spectre of Curze’s face was an inch from his own. Elver whimpered. Curze smiled.

It was a chilling rictus grin, a memento mori made flesh. Elver swallowed, and faster than his human mind could sense, Curze grabbed him by the throat and flung him easily atop the exposed wires of the open console that he had just repaired. 

Elver’s screaming mind tried to anticipate what pound of flesh Curze would charge for his boredom. Would he lose more fingers, or another part of a limb? Icy panic clutched at his heart as he considered the total loss of his vision. Instead Curze gripped his thigh and forced his legs apart, spreading him wide. Elver closed his eye and shuddered.

It was forced open again when Curze laid the enormous weight of his hard cock between Elver’s legs. It dwarfed his own, and lying against his body, it became suddenly and obscenely clear how deep into his guts the thing would penetrate when it was forced inside him.

Elver whimpered again, and the tiny ragged shred of pride inside him rebelled at the fact that it was not just a sound of fear. Some small and servile and seduced part of him saw the length and thickness of the Night Haunter’s member and sat up and begged. It would tear him and hurt him and make him bleed for sure, but somehow the feeling of it stretching and fucking into the hot core of him made his insides roil with queasy pleasure. Overton’s tiny cock was nothing, he finally knew, when he saw what Curze could hurt him with.

And it wasn’t just that cock that made him spread what was left of his other leg for Curze. Once again his senses were filled with not only the rich sweet reek of death but also Curze’s ethereal beauty, caked as it was in filth and the grime. The putrescine perfume of him was nothing compared to the warm masculine smell of his arousal. It made Elver dizzy, just like the swell of his powerful muscles and the pure white skin beneath the dirt.

He imagined the bulge in his belly Curze’s hard cock would make. He gasped when Curze saw his arousal and reached down to wrap his skeletal fingers around Elver’s much smaller cock. 

“Lord…” Elver whimpered. It was excitement, yes, and also fear of Curze’s talons. Curze grinned, or at least the corners of his scarred lips pulled upwards, as he ran his fingers down the length of Elver’s hardness. 

“Master,” he gasped. The ragged nails scored the delicate skin of his cock and balls. Warm blood welled where they ripped him. 

“Please,” he begged, as Curze rubbed his cock between his legs. His blood dyed it red and it made his breath hitch. If he bled for his lord enough, perhaps it would ease the way for his cock inside of him. 

He tipped his hips upwards and looked deep into the charcoal blackness of Konrad Curze’s eyes. 

The Night Haunter would not be bored tonight.